The Zen Cabin

I can’t sleep

So, here we are.

Not-quite-middle-aged man glances disapprovingly at cloud

A casual list of things I don’t care about:

• Tiger Woods had an auto accident.  Seriously, people?  Oh, wait!  His wife blah blah blah… Fuckin’ eh, we are the saddest species.
• The dumbasses that crashed the White House State Dinner.  Yes, I’m concerned that they were allowed in.  I don’t care about them.  I will never watch your dick-drooling “reality” TV show, so get a real job or go fuck yourselves while you’re on fire, assholes.  You’re stealing Sarah Palin’s limelight, which means you’ll probably be dead in a week anyway.
• The Episcopal Church in Uganda.  Like you fuckers don’t have anything more important to worry about than gay people?  It’s Uganda, for Christ’s sake!  It’s fairly apparent that God already hates you, in case you haven’t looked around for the last few decades.
• Sarah Palin on the Newsweek cover.  I know a couple women who were raped or date-raped.  The PUMA crowd can shove their “sexual violence” bullshit up their asses, roll over twice and see if a penny comes out.  She’s a real American Hockey Mom, she’ll get over it.
• Carrie Prawnjoan or whatever the fuck her name is.  You’re no Sarah Palin.  Take advantage of that while you can – enroll in college, get a real job and salvage the last few scraps of your reputation you might find floating around.  There’s not a thinking man on the planet who believes you wrote a book that fast, schatzie.  Don’t push your luck, we’re a fickle crowd.
• Tom Cruise, Twilight, Tickle Me Hamsters, Cyber Monday (unless they mean “cyber” Monday, in which case, I have Skype, ladies), your Thanksgiving recipes, Brad Pitt divorcing Angelina Jolie (I have Skype, Ang),  Dancing with Dear God Shoot My Brains Out Now! Please, just fucking PLEASE!, go away!  You make us all dumber as humans, just talking about this stuff.

A casual list of things I actually care about:

• 7 bottles of wine and a bottle of Templeton rye in my kitchen.  See, these are the kind of Thanksgiving leftovers that matter to me.  If you’ve never had Templeton rye, do yourself a favor and find someone in Iowa who can send you a bottle.  Or come out to Iowa and try some!
• I just bought some pants! What, a guy can’t look good?  Hey, it’s not like the RNC paid for ‘em.
• I just bought some shirts! See above.  Also, too.
• New Year’s Day.  The boys and I are playing a little crappy bar in Smalltown, USA on New Year’s Day night.  We rock.  Mostly.  Also.
• My poor old Mother.  She’s pushing 90, living down at my sister’s.  I saw her two weeks ago, for a few days, and recently saw pictures from their Thanksgiving gathering.  It’s a tough thing, seeing your parents grow old.  I’m not sure if it’s worse because they grow frail or because it reminds us that we’re growing older, as well.  If I could let go and give her my youth, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
• I mentioned pants, right?

Here’s a message* for all you kids out there working at the cable news networks:  If you’re anywhere near a producer or news editor, take this simple advice and make America a better place.  Kick your producer or news editor in the balls.  When he falls on the floor, kick him in the balls again.  Then kick him in the head.  If he’s still screaming, kick him anywhere your foot will reach.  If someone tries to help him, kick them in the balls, as well.  If someone else tries to help, kick them in the knee, then when they fall on the floor kick them in the balls.

If you’re in a production meeting and someone wants to go with 1) Tiger Woods had a car accident!, 2) The President is black! or 3) Where the white girls at?!?, just say this: “How bout I jump on [flowbee model's] desk and shit all over their desk on camera?  Huh?  How bout I do that?  Ratings!  RATINGS, motherfuckers!!!”  Because, in all honesty, we will stand and applaud you.  You will be our new hero.

Rip -

Friday Night Drinking Club: Also. Too.

Hi, kids!  [Hi, Rip!]

It’s another Friday night in Smalltown, USA  – can you feel the excitement?  I know you can.  I’m drinking a fine American beer between practice sessions on the old bass.  What’s that, Rip?  You’re playing the bass again?  Yes, a couple friends and I are working on a little rock trio – so far, we’re leaning toward the forgotten songs that were part of our growing-up years:  Husker Du, Social Distortion, Joe Jackson, The Cure, The Cult, The Vapors, Crowded House, Gary Myrick & The Figures.  Definitely not the stuff I used to play, but songs I like, so I’m enjoying it.

Here’s the Mix n Match 12 pack for tonite: (right-click to save the zip file)

Southern Anthem – Iron & Wine
Aanhk Naal – Not sure who this is, actually
Beni – Julein Jacob/Kalikom
Underground – Men At Work
Du og Meg – Of Montreal
East Timor – Ginger Baker, Bill Frisell & Charlie Haden
Hide U – Kosheen
Felicidade – Riolistic
Last of the Big Time Drinkers – Stereophonics
Eyes – North Mississippi Allstars
Busted - The Black Keys
African Heart - Angel Tears

An odd set, but what are you gonna do?

I’m going to head back to the basement and make some noise for a little bit.  Meanwhile, enjoy reading about these dead end drinks:

It goes without saying that Coors was accused by the usual shrill gang of scolds as engaging in a cynical campaign targeting teenagers. Their proof?  Teenagers were drinking it.  Their logic being: if teenagers are doing something, then adults must be telling them to do it.  Which, speaking as a former teenager myself, makes very little sense.  Zima was also demonized as a gateway drink, a devilishly gentle ramp between angelic soda and sinister beer.

But like a rudely spurned yet insanely delusional groupie, Coors wasn’t ready to give up on full-grown men just yet.  After the fall-off, Coors riposted with Zima Gold, which they swore, with a straight face, offered “a taste of bourbon.”  Guys weren’t buying it, in both senses of the term, and it vanished within a year.  Coors would doggedly try again with a pumped-up 5.9% Zima XXX (It’s exxxtremely exxxcellent!), but it also failed to gain a foothold with the boys.

Mmmm, Zima.  I used to love the stuff, frankly.  I had a girlfriend who was nuts for Zima and Jolly Ranchers – yes, she was more than a little off.

More later, probably.

Rip -

What are words for?

It’s drab here in Smalltown, USA, lately. Gray, damp, not terribly cold but just at that level of chilly that seems to work its way into your bones, as if out of spite because we’re not complaining about the temperature yet.  Drinking coffee from a rocks tumbler because the coffee cups are all dirty and I hate washing dishes. Wondering how long I can avoid putting on big people clothes and running errands; it’s not a measure of time in situations like this but a measure of cigarettes.  I just noticed that WP has a tiny Word Count indicator at the bottom of this section.  I’d never really thought about the quanity of words I write, beyond “long post” or “short post”.  Now I’m sure I’ll be monitoring that and wondering if it’s a fair metric for my thoughts, such as they are.  130 words and I haven’t really said anything.  See?

Mother Ripley was here for a week and has returned to my darling sister’s place now.  It’s almost… what, awkward? to see her so frail.  As if she’s shrinking in every dimension.  Not shrinking – fading, maybe.  Yes, fading… the way a radio station loses power as you drive away from the city, the songs still recognizable but less and less so as the wheels turn and my world is all about what’s inside the car.  226 words, WP tells me.

The last couple days, I’ve caught myself wishing there were snow on the ground.  I think I want to experience that feeling of being warm in my apartment while it’s cold and Wintery outside.  Maybe I’m just longing for change.  I’ve also been thinking I need to get laid.  Given the choice between sex and companionship or snow, well… that’s an easy call, isn’t it?  Frankly, there are many things I need to do: revamp the blog (nothing major), fire up the other site I’ve been sitting on for almost a year and try to make some money, get the camera out again, stop smoking, stop drinking so much, get some exercise, eat something that’s actually healthy…  Lucky for me there’s a new year right around the corner.

Speaking of a new year, I’m stunned by the velocity this year has picked up.  I’ve been in this apartment almost nine months now and it seems like forever.  Jesus.  It’s a blur, at best.  388 words now.

I don’t want to sound like I’m depressed.  I’m just slightly hung over and my mood is quiet and gray, like the weather.  413 words.  6 cigarettes left.  I suppose it’s time to get moving and get something done.

Rip -

More photo madness

More photoblabbery from the area. Click for bigness.

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